Abby's Night Out
by JMK758
Summary: Abby breaks out of her Lab for a night of surprises.


Disclaimer: Belisarius Productions owns NCIS. I don't even own Abby, I'm just having some fun with her.  
This is a one-shot story having nothing to do with my series. It is Adult Erotica, rated 'T' or NCis-17.

Abby's Night Out  
By: JMK758

Abby Sciuto sits on the brushed leather stool in the hotel bar; a tiny snifter before her; trying to deny how apprehensive she is. She runs her fingertip around the rim of the almost spherical glass, which still holds a quarter inch of amber liquid, listening to the soft music playing in the background and feeling the anticipation building in her.

She had planned this evening for over a week, and as the day drew closer she could feel her need building, and with it her fear. She can't deny it; initial desire had become need, but need spiced with apprehension and genuine fear. She knew days ago that she 'needed' to be here, that she could not deny herself any longer, and as the day drew closer and closer she felt the anticipation growing in her like a living thing.

Now the moment is here. She sits on a bar stool in one of Washington's most fashionable hotels, and feels her anxiety build until it consumes everything, until it becomes her whole world.

She reaches down, tugs at the hem of her black dress, tries to get the material to cover more of her thighs, but it perversely refuses to cooperate.

The dress, if that word could be used to dignify it, is the ultimate indulgence. She's had it for years, but for someone who lives and revels in the outrageous, it has long graced the back of her closet, hidden behind Goth attire along with the pants suits, modest dresses and jackets needed for court dates until it was almost forgotten. But it was always there, teasing and taunting her with its very presence and tantalizing promise, a relic of bygone days, days sacrificed to the demands of the world she would comply – on her own terms – with.

To say it's _short_ is to grant it too much dignity. Short is what she wears at NCIS when she is trying to shock her co-workers – the coverage of this one over her thighs can be measured in bare millimeters and far too few of those. Its black, sleeveless top features a prominent 'V' that delves deep below the level of her full breasts while any reach upward will cause her to flash the room; and she dares not relax from keeping her legs pressed tightly together while she sits on the stool. For someone whose lifestyle is characterized by the outrageous, this is _embarrassing_! The almost dress is so brief she can feel the edge of the leather seat on her unprotected thighs.

She looks ahead, unable to keep from seeing herself in the mirror, in the space between sorted bottles, and tries to keep a blush from coloring her face. The 'V' is wide enough that if she takes a deep breath her nipples will be displayed for anyone who cares to look; and so many do. So deep, so generous is the 'V' that all she can think is ' _why_?'

x

She picks up the delicate glass, holds it close, gently breaths in the fragrance of the liqueur, the lingering act a more cherished sensation enhancing the eventual taste.

She tries to drown her anxiety in the soft music playing from speakers above her head, in the quiet conversations that float to her, finally in a tiny sip of the amber liquid which nips gently at her tongue. She puts the glass down again, seeing it coat the crystal in an almost invisible sheen, falling away as she tries to feel her reserve fall.

She has to force it to fall, to push it away, because she refuses to back down, to turn away from her unfulfilled need.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, tugging with mild annoyance at the black material which unveils her treasures, she very carefully turns around on the rotating stool, surveys the modest crowd at the round tables surrounding her.

She has to be so careful in turning, because twenty minutes ago she had made the ultimate decision, the ultimate commitment to her long anticipated fulfillment. She'd gone into the Ladies room and, with trembling hands, had removed the black lacy thong that had formed the last barrier to her plans, tucking the tiny material, so shockingly small a ball, into her black purse. Returning to the stool, sitting down so carefully on the still warm leather, surprised at the heat through the thinnest of fabric, she is now committed to her scheme. She'd taken the last step, crossed the point of no return. She'd decided that she would not, could not, turn back.

Now she looks out over the people who surround her past the small, highly polished hardwood dance floor, focusing on the unaccompanied men, thinking of choice, wondering which one will be the one. Her heart begins to pound in her chest and she fights to calm herself, trying not to give her plans away by her mounting stress.

So many men; some rejected in an instant, some not, some instantly selected, but how to make her choice? Or would it be made _for_ her?

x

Long days of celibacy had turned into weeks – unusual for her – until it had become a painful thing that gnawed at her, tore and consumed her as the world – her world – demanded all from her and denied her this. Weeks, _months_ of denial until she thought she couldn't remember what touch felt like, had conspired to drive her here. It had driven her to commit to this; and the decision had become nearly all she could think of. Now - finally - she's here; waiting… anticipating.… _N_ _ot ready_!

She looks down at herself, at the way her breasts push the clinging black material outward, more so on the points that press the dress and long to be touched, at the way it lays so soft across her upper thighs, her _very_ upper thighs, and she becomes so aware that nothing protects her, nothing denies anyone, nothing at all.

x

She turns back half way, reaches for the small glass, brings it to her black lips with trembling fingers but can take only the tiniest drop. The strong liquid teases her black lips, offering, giving but fulfilling nothing.

"Can I get you another?"

She jumps in her skin at the voice of the bartender. She turns completely around, trying not to let her fright show.

"Y – yes." Her voice, which she so desperately wants to be strong and confident, is a quivering whisper.

"What'll you have?"

"Am – amaretto." She takes a deep breath to regain her composure, and is instantly sorry as she sees the man's eyes flicker briefly downward. She makes a show of tugging the overly generous material back into place, covering her left nipple which insisted upon coming out to wink at him of its own accord. "Disaronno," she says more firmly, re-attracting his attention to her eyes. She had not consider him as having made even the first 'cut' but her nipple had made a different decision.

The white jacketed man pours an inch of amber into her tiny glass, not put out by her reserve. She suspects he's never at a loss for 'shows' in this job, so one loss is insignificant. "Five dollars."

Abby picks up her small black purse, reaches into it and her fingers slip past her sheer lace panties which accuse her with their touch, mock her morals and honor. She closes hard on the money and a warm hand on the back of hers prevents her from withdrawing it. "I've got this, Harry."

She looks up as the man beside her hands a bill to the bartender. When Abby sees the man, dressed in white shirt and dark suit, his eyes on hers as he turns over the money, she feels the touch of his hand still on hers travel up her arm, through her chest, past her hips and down her bare legs all the way to her toes.

x

"Thank you." Again her confident tones are drowned in a whisper. With left hand she raises the glass to her black lips and tries so hard to keep her fingers from trembling worse than ever.

"My pleasure." His warm voice flows into her with the liqueur, fills her, tingles even as the amber liquid nips at her. He removes his hand from hers yet his touch lingers on her soul. "May I?" he asks, indicating the stool next to hers. It takes her a second, and two tries, but she manages to nod. She runs her fingertips surreptitiously over the back of her right hand, tries to erase his touch from her nerves, but she only succeeds in rubbing it in more deeply.

"Thank you," she manages to say again, this time in a voice more her own – and has to wonder exactly what she is thanking him for. She manages to look at him now, and decides he's not bad.

In fact, he's not bad at all.

No, strike that. The more she looks, the more she realizes this man has instantly shot to the top of her list.

x

Now she really is trembling, but this time it's deep inside, in places so rarely moved.

She tries to force herself back under control, but his eyes tear that control from her again.

"What's your name?" he asks in a voice like honey, and she tries to stifle a gasp as she feels it flow over her, flow into her, flow through her. The subtle hint of his cologne caresses the fragrance of the Amaretto.

"Ab – Abby," she tells him with a shy smile wholly at odds with all the plans she had made for days, for weeks. She curses herself. If she doesn't get herself back under control, she's going to lose this. She _can't_ lose this. Not after coming this far, not after committing herself. She can't! "And you are?"

"Call me Jay."

Abby feels cheated. She'd given up her real name and been rewarded with a lie. And such a patent lie; who's called 'Jay' anymore?

Her eyes flickers briefly, as briefly as she can, to his left hand, but finds no barely visible band of lightened skin about the base of his third finger.

She knows then. She recognizes a Hunter. He's on the prowl, just as she is. She had been building to this for days, had felt the need build in her until it had become a force that tore at her, that burned within her, that would not be denied. She'd come here hunting, seeking what she needed. Now she realizes she sits next to another Hunter, but which is the prey? Is he to be her prey – or is she to be his?

"So–." _Now_ her voice is high! She forces it back. "So, 'Jay', what's your story?" She tries not to let the word carry everything that is in her mind, but it's hard. Fortunately, he doesn't flinch.

"I'm in town on business for a few days; from the Midwest."

"Do you get into the city often?" she asks over the soft music playing above their heads.

"First time. Unfortunately, I doubt I'll get the chance to come back."

x

There it is. He's telling her in his way that he recognizes she's looking for the same thing that he is when she had come here tonight; a memorable night with someone she'd never see again. It remains only for her to say 'yea' or 'nay'.

She turns toward the bar, uncertain. Her plans had been so certain, so definite. Now the moment is here, she knows his mind, and now she isn't sure.

"I'm a bit lonely," he says in that honeyed voice, "and came down looking for companionship."

She looks at him, feeling his suave voice stroking her flesh, and sees the cast of his eyes. She glances down, discovering that seated sideways to him, he has an excellent view of her charms. Half her breast is bare from this angle.

She tugs at the dress; it perversely refuses to give way more than a millimeter.

She looks back up at him. "Is that what you're looking for, 'Jay'? Companionship?"

He stands up, his hand extended to her. "Would you care to dance?"

She looks up and her voice deserts her. Dance? To be close to him? To be held in his arms? To have his body close to hers, hers touching his, his touching hers? To move to the soft music playing above their heads, his body touching hers? Does she?

Things she longs to deny move deep within her, press her hard. This isn't her lab. She has no solitude here. She has to answer and her voice is stolen by him. Emotions and feelings and sensations and desires make the decision for her. She takes his hand, unwilling and scared and longing and needful, knowing she's lost the hunt.

 _She_ is the Prey.

x

Clutching her small black purse in her left hand, tries to hide all her apprehension from him in that clenching grip, steps away from the bar before she can allow herself to think. In that purse, clutched tightly in her hand, is her last intimate defense, so near and too far.

He draws her to him, not demanding, not compelling, just draws her to him, allowing her to resist more than her own body allows her. She doesn't resist, can't. Anticipation and fear make her heart pound, spice her blood. She'd come as the huntress, became the prey, now she's captured and at his mercy.

x

The music is slow; their movements slower, and as she feels the warmth of his body against hers, feels the flow of the brief black dress caressing her body, she becomes anxiously aware that this is the only thing separating her nudity from him. Even her lacy black thong, a so tiny ball stuffed into her purse, wouldn't have been anything between them. Abby feels her heart pounding, his body briefly touching hers in teasing, tingling contacts and she is utterly nude.

His body is too warm when it touches hers, the feeling better than it should have been. His arms about her, his body touching hers as they move against one another, do things to her familiar and joyous and regretted for their pleasure. The dress is nothing between them; she's _nude_ in his arms. The barely discernible scent of his cologne ignites feelings she wants to deny, but which her body will not.

She looks up to him and is unprepared – no, she's prepared and anticipating and longing and needing – when he presses his lips to hers.

x

She knows she should pull away. This is too fast; _he_ _'_ _s_ too fast. This should not be! She should pull away. She should slap him. She shouldn't feel what she feels throughout her body. She shouldn't feel or admit to or give in to the sensations that flare through her, that tear through her restraint and control to burn her heart and her soul.

Decisions become nothing, desires and plans and anticipations become nothing. The dress has already become nothing. She's his _prey_.

His lips taste of promise, of fulfillment, of tastes she thought she'd forgotten. She presses her lips to his, subtle motions slide them against one another and the sensations make her moan. She can't help but tell him of her need.

Moments later his lips slip from hers and are hot against her throat as he holds her closer, moves to music she can barely hear. Her breasts are pressed to him – no, she's pressing her breasts to him and every movement sends flares of pleasure through her.

Sensations sear her as his lips nuzzle her throat, erotic thrills electrify her all the way to her toes, charge every cell, ignite things she'd denied for so long, buried for so long - too long. She tries to say something but only a soft moan can escape her lips, and with that moan she tells him she knows she's lost.

Her breath grows fast, hard as her chest heaves. Her sensitive breasts rub against his chest through the thin cloth as his hands attack her mercilessly without even moving. The picture of decorum to anyone else, his still hands rip her. She's his victim, held willing in his arms. Her long building desires blaze within her, breath reduced to moans of savage lust.

It goes on forever and ever until ultimately she feels his soft words as vibrations against her soft flesh. "I have a room upstairs."

x

A last twinge of fear, all but obliterated in the inferno he kindled, allows her to push back. But even as she pushed her upper body away a few scant inches, her hips are pressed to his with a willingness her mind denies and her body demands. She meets his eyes, this predator, this man on the prowl, and her words come out as barely a gasp; "I'm not a slut."

Even to her it sounds like a lie.

She cannot ignore how the dress she barely wears, the dress she'd chosen, accuses her; how it denies her protest. She glances down and her dress presses tight against her chest, the material virtually not there, her firm nipples reaching out in their own longing. Her quivering whisper is barely a breath, her denial a tiny thing nearly lost in the fire that sears her.

He draws her back against him, continues to dance so decorously with her, the touch of his body doing absolutely terrible and delicious things to her. His lips find her neck, this time her other side. Her cry is so tiny, her moans so soft only he can hear them, but as he continues kissing her neck, electric charges flaring through her, the searing flames burn her helpless body.

She can't breathe, not to fight. She'd come as predator, became prey, now she's his meal!

x

"I have a room upstairs," he whispers again and his hot voice tingles through her body, seem to flow through her to tingle one special spot. This time, though she tries to say no, she feels her head nod sharply.

She tries twice, three times, _four_ times to say it. Her every breath is stolen in moans, and finally she manages to gasp her answer.

"Yes."

x

They leave the bar, but he never lets her go, never lets her have an instant to reconsider, his decorous touch keeping her his captive. His hands about her waist, he guides her through the bar and keeps her fire blazing so fervently that even though she tries to think, to resist, to go back, she cannot. She doesn't _want_ to resist. She'd come here for this, made her choice, and cannot back out.

She _will_ not back out.

x

In the elevator he grabs her, his lips press hers and, ignited passion no longer denied or hidden, she gives fire for fire. His hot hands caress her burning body, make her want to scream as she longs in turn to tear at his clothing, her gasping breath loud in the car. She reaches for him, need overwhelmed by desperation; fulfillment in sight. Everything she'd denied herself for months comes out in a searing inferno. The conflagration steals her mind, burns away her last thoughts of apprehension, turns her hesitations to ash as she gives and takes and needs more!

His finger is suddenly there, under her dress, and he presses her, finds her wet and hot and her head flies back, breath stolen in volcanic gasps as he attacks her throat and she longs for him to do more than touch!

The car stops and she could scream as he pulls away.

x

The steps to his room are a torturous quest of a few feet; he barely gets his key card into the door and her through it before she tears at him, restraint and apprehension and control abandoned. She can't even try to stop; won't even try. Everything she's restrained for months sears her until she feels herself explode in a passionate inferno.

Thought is gone, reason abandoned, sanity obliterated.

He presses her back against the wall, traps her, his hot body pressed to hers, his open mouth to hers. Their tongues duel and he gets his hands between their chests and she's shocked as he pulls hard, rips her dress loud. He pulls away just far enough for her to look down and he yanks harder. She knows she should feel appalled but can't. All she can care about is getting that interfering material out of her way.

He tears her dress all the way to the brief hem and breaks the garment in half, pulls it wide and tugs it down her arms so it falls to the floor. All she wears are her black high heels and, incredibly excited by his force, she throws her naked body into his, her hands going on the attack.

They cling to one another in mounting passion as she tears at his clothes, rips them as her long pent up passions drive her and finds release in his unveiled body. She tears as hard as she can, even pinned to the wall, his hands all over her scorching body, invading her even as she tears at the fabric between them. Jacket, shirt, undershirt all go in loud shrieks of cloth. She grabs his belt and pulls it open, clutches his trousers and pulls as hard as she can, the zipper split and destroyed and she shoves down. The thin drawers interfere for only a second before they turn to strips, break and are gone, she having no mercy or restraint for this man who would–

He pulls her from the wall, turns her and presses her toward the bed. Both their naked bodies topple upon it, his weight traps her. He pins her down on the yielding mattress as she pulls at him, opens herself to him even as he forces her, takes – needs – yearns – _attains!_

She clamps her hand over her own mouth to muffle her shriek!

xxx

Abby lies on the wide bed whose pillows, blanket and comforter were long lost, utterly content in the man's arms as he holds her; gently stroking her down from the mad shrieking frenzy that had consumed her. This she appreciates so much; there are so few men who know how important it is afterwards just to be held and eased down from the madness. She feels lucky to have found him.

" _Thank_ you," she breathes, cuddling deeper into his embrace. She can't remember the last time she's been so utterly, completely grateful to any man. She feels totally relaxed, monumentally satisfied, more contented than she's been in months.

He smiles at her, equally satisfied. "You destroyed my best suit, you know."

She grins. "Serves you right for wearing your best one; a man like you picking up strange women in a hotel bar. Besides," she hits his arm, "you tore my dress in half!"

"You've always hated that dress, that's why you packed it along with tomorrow's clothes," he 'reminds' her, referring to the black suitcase at the foot of the bed.

He reaches behind himself, draws the blanket off the floor to spread over them. Its initial coolness quickly succumbs to their heat.

"Get some sleep."

"I'll sleep for a week," she sighs, snuggling closer, reveling in his warm body.

"I've got an 0600 wake up call, have to be in on that Johnson case," he's relieved he'd packed more than one suit, "but you don't have to hurry. Check-out's at ten."

She shakes her head. "Nonsense. The first thing I'm going to hear at 0801 is 'what've you got, Abs?'"

"Guaranteed." NCIS is a hard mistress.

"See you in the morning," she assures him and cuddles closer as he turns off the light. He comes back and her lips find his.

"I can hardly wait," he mutters past them.


End file.
